


balance good, everything good

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-28
Updated: 2011-04-28
Packaged: 2017-10-18 19:20:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which Dean is a stealthy ninja and Sam is an idiot</p>
            </blockquote>





	balance good, everything good

**Author's Note:**

> written for [this prompt](http://ohsam.livejournal.com/196018.html?thread=1329330#t1329330) form the excellent [](http://deirdre-c.livejournal.com/profile)[**deirdre_c**](http://deirdre-c.livejournal.com/) for the [Sam-week comment meme](http://ohsam.livejournal.com/196018.html) over at [](http://ohsam.livejournal.com/profile)[**ohsam**](http://ohsam.livejournal.com/) . Title from _The Karate Kid_.

Dean is awesome, like a stealthy ninja.

“Dude, did you see that?” he says to Sam. Which obviously Sam didn’t, because if he had seen Dean coming at him like a stealthy ninja, or like that roof-running chick in _Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon_ , he would have blocked Dean’s stealthy ninja blow. And if he had blocked Dean’s stealthy ninja blow he wouldn’t be lying on the grass now, giving his crowd-pleasing imitation of an offended fish. Dean reaches down magnanimously to haul him to his feet. Sam bats his hand away, stands by himself with a sour grimace. Sore loser.

“You wanna go another round?” Dean asks. Maybe this time Sam will manage to be the stealthy ninja and then he’ll be in a better mood at dinner.

“I just spent twenty-four hours dressed up as a cowboy to pander to your fetish,” Sam says. He’s breathing hard. They’ve been hitting the books so much lately, could be they’re getting out of practice on the sparring. Sam’s sweating, too. “I think I’ll pass on another round as your punching bag, thanks.”

“Apprentice punching bag,” says Dean. “First learn stand, then learn fly, young grasshopper. Many years study you must before way of punching bag master you can.”

Sam groans. Sore loser with no appreciation for culture. Dean thwacks him on the shoulder with the car keys. “Here,” he offers, “Drive me to my dinner, bitch.”

Sam gives him a surprised glance, like he always does, every third day after the blue moon when Dean hands him the keys. He looks kind of pale and pinched – horseback riding all night will do that to a guy, Dean guesses, especially to someone like Sam, who never paid enough attention when he was watching it on TV. No technique. Sam’s probably sore as hell. Maybe Dean should pick up some bath salts for him. Like, rose vanilla scented bath salts in a frilly sachet. But though he winces when he settles behind the wheel he also smiles at Dean, that small, hopeful smile he’s been using a lot lately. Dean’s not quite sure what’s up with it, but he’ll take it. Provisionally. He’s not settling long-term. He’s still aiming for the full-on Sammy grin, the one with dimples. The one he hasn’t seen in years. He’ll surprise it out of Sam one of these days. Like a stealthy ninja.

They go to a bar for dinner, and Dean plays a couple of games of pool, just for petty cash, nothing serious, while Sam nurses his single beer for two hours. Sam’s quiet, and he doesn’t eat much, but when Dean totally pwns his second game on dead stroke he gives him that half-smile again and lifts his glass. Dean calls it a night after that. Their day had an extra 150 years, after all. They head back to the motel before nine.

Sam claims the first shower. He’s moving stiffly, and he makes a face and grunts a bit when he’s digging his sweats out of the bag. Shit, Dean forgot to buy him frilly bath salts. Oh well. A hot shower will loosen him up. Dean doesn’t protest when the shower runs a good twenty minutes, no doubt using all the hot water. He listens idly to the faint sounds as Sam towels off afterward and gets into his sweats and brushes his teeth. Maybe when Sam comes out they could play a game of cards or something. It’s still pretty early.

But Sam doesn’t come out. There’s a long silence from the bathroom and then a faint gasp. “You OK in there?” Dean calls. “I’m fine,” Sam answers crossly, but he still doesn’t emerge. Dean goes over and bangs on the door. “Are you jerking off?” he asks. Then he barges in without waiting for Sam to answer. If Sam didn’t clean his pipes in the shower like a normal guy, he totally deserves to be embarrassed.

Sam isn’t jerking off. He’s leaning against the counter, face sweaty and twisted with pain, t-shirt hiked so he can poke at an ugly, purpling bruise on his ribs.

“What the hell, Sam?” says Dean, “When did that happen? Why didn’t you say something?” He pushes Sam’s hand out of the way and feels along the rib himself. Nothing is loose or grating, but Sam’s breath hitches and his face goes grey when Dean pushes gently at the bone. Probably cracked, not fractured. Still.

“Sam?” he says.

“I’m all right,” Sam says. “It’s not a big deal.”

“We’re about to go after the motherfucking Mother, Sam. If you’re not fighting fit then, yes, it is a big deal. Especially if you don’t fucking tell me.”

Sam just looks guilty and cornered. Dean eyes him, putting the pieces together.

“You were fine, sparring,” he says. “So this isn’t a souvenir of the Wild West. It was me, wasn’t it?” Dean’s stealthy ninja move, Sam knocked flat on his butt in the grass.

Sam stands there sullenly, breathing shallow and careful around his rib. Dean grips the counter in frustration, so hard it hurts.

“Damn it, Sam,” he says, “I mean, fuck, I’m sorry. Of course I’m sorry. But could you not skulk around playing the martyr instead of, like, trusting me?”

Sam’s expression breaks at that. He reaches out and grabs onto Dean’s shirt, like he’s making some kind of appeal.

“It wasn’t that, Dean,” he says. “I mean, I know it was dumb, and I’m sorry, I should have told you, but it wasn’t that.”

“Then what was it?” says Dean. Sam looks away, like he’s not going to answer, but he doesn’t look shifty or ashamed. Just embarrassed.

“You seemed like you were having fun,” he blurts at last, “Back there with your stupid cowboy fetish, and then with the sparring. You know, like you were enjoying stuff again. Enjoying _us_. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

Dean stares at Sam for a long moment. Sam is so fucked. And Dean is a bit fucked, too, because he’s a hairs-breadth away from doing something scarily chick-flick, like hugging Sam or ruffling his ridiculous hair or, you know, crying.

“You do realize that that’s monumentally stupid, don’t you?” he says eventually. He says it slowly and carefully, because of the not crying thing and because Sam is evidently having an off day processing basic concepts.

“Sorry,” Sam says again, scrunching up his forehead like it won’t matter if he’s an irredeemable idiot as long as he’s got that wrinkly, droopy bloodhound look going. Dean sighs. The things he puts up with. He tugs Sam’s t-shirt back into place and shoves him gently towards the room.

“You know the rib drill,” he says. “Bed. Deep breaths, even if it hurts. I’ll get you some pills and an ice pack.”

Sam walks geriatrically into the bedroom, hand to his side, and lies back against two pillows on one of the beds with a stifled “Fuck”. Dean dumps half the ice bucket into a plastic bag and wraps a handtowel round it, digs up one of the not-so-prescribed prescription bottles from the med kit. They can scale back to ibuprofen tomorrow. Tonight Sam’s getting the good stuff. He swallows it without any protest that Dean can’t abort with a glare.

Dean settles against the headboard beside Sam and finds a Western on a slightly fuzzy channel. The cowboys’ clothes look pretty clean. Ha. Sam’s eyelids droop to half-mast, open again. He’s missing another chance to pick up riding tips, but then, Dean’s not quite concentrating either, one eye on the screen, one on Sam. Sam’s eyes shut all the way at last and his head sags to one side, pain pills pulling him under. Dean watches till the lines on his face have smoothed out and he’s slid gradually down the pillows and is lying almost flat, breathing without that catch and hesitating frown.

It’s true, Dean realizes, what Sam said. For all that life still sucks he _is_ enjoying this. Them. Sam. Not the accidentally breaking him part, of course. But having Sam around being Sam. Watching Dean’s back on hunts and bitching about the awesome cowboy shirts Dean gets him and rolling his eyes at Dean’s posse jokes. Letting Dean boss him to bed and make him take pills. Drooling on him, right now – Sam’s edged closer, somehow, so his face is mashed against Dean’s thigh. Dean takes the ice pack away and pulls the comforter over him, then lets his hand rest on Sam’s shoulder for a minute. Stealthily. Like a ninja. “Sammy,” he says quietly, just because. Sam goes on sleeping.


End file.
